The judge flipped through the first pages, then the next. His eyebrows climbed higher. He read silently for a few seconds, then aloud:
Can’t wait to see her stupid face when she realizes I took her for everything.
He looked up over his glasses. “Mr. Jensen, did you write this?”
Ethan swallowed. “That’s out of context.”
There was a pause in which even the bailiff seemed interested.
Then the judge said, dry as old paper, “What context makes that sound better?”
Silence.
Rebecca shifted in her seat. Even Margaret stopped moving.
Miranda kept going. She laid out the dates of the affair. The financial transfers Ethan had made in small increments from the grocery account. The hotel receipts. The Vegas chapel certificate. The company directory showing Ethan and Rebecca worked under the same reporting chain, in violation of policy. The attempted lockout complaint. The security footage from my back door. The public posts. The now-deleted but archived messages coordinating the online smear campaign.
Every time Ethan’s lawyer tried to reframe something as emotional confusion or marital breakdown, Miranda answered with documentation so exact it felt surgical.
“Not only did Mr. Jensen commit adultery, Your Honor,” she said at one point, “he also committed bigamy. He legally married another woman while still bound by the first marriage. The evidence is indisputable.”
Ethan’s lawyer tried once more. “Well, technically my client believed the marriage with Ms. Jensen was already—”
“Belief does not override law,” the judge said. “He signed a second marriage certificate while still legally married. I’m appalled I have to explain that.”
A murmur moved through the room.
Lily muttered something sharp enough to catch the bailiff’s attention and immediately stopped when he looked her way.
Then came the ruling.
It landed exactly as it should have.
Divorce granted.
House and primary assets retained solely by me.
Ethan entitled to his remaining personal belongings and his vehicle, along with exclusive financial responsibility for said vehicle.
Because I had paid for his professional certification program during the marriage—two years of coursework he had since used to bolster his salary—he was ordered to pay six months of modest alimony at five hundred dollars per month.
Not because I needed the money. Because principle sometimes deserves a number.
The gavel cracked.
Final. Clean. Official.